


Filter

by rageprufrock



Category: Harry Potter - Rowling
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-01-05
Updated: 2010-01-05
Packaged: 2017-10-05 20:30:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,189
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/45778
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rageprufrock/pseuds/rageprufrock
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Don't let anybody fool you, there are such things as stupid questions.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Filter

Harry tried to see Remus as Sirius must have seen him.

Two months after his godfather had fallen through that tattered veil, Harry had surrendered himself to finding Sirius wherever he lingered. Grimmauld Place had offered no comfort -- not it had ever, and the only things there were bad memories and the smell of Molly Weasley's cooking. For the first time in his life, Harry found staying with the Dursley's preferable to whatever alternative there existed.

"Thank you," he said awkwardly, searching about in the Dursley's cabinets for the good teacups and tea.

Remus smiled lightly. "It's all right, Harry. You just hadn't written in three days." Remus froze, and before Harry could start telling himself that he was just a business obligation, added, "We were worried about you."

Harry breathed and resolved to stop acting like a girl. "Oh."

His uncle had been out of the house when Professor Lupin had knocked on the door. Aunt Petunia had opened the door to see a cleanly-dressed, middle-aged man smiling pleasantly there, it'd taken her an extra split-second of blushing before she'd remembered who Remus was, and where she'd last seen him. Then, it'd taken her all of four minutes to grab Dudley and shove the both of them upstairs, undoubtedly to perform some sort of cleansing ritual that'd involve copious amounts of bleach and muttering about the evils of magic.

And now, sitting in the Dursley's kitchen, with sunlight dappling the wood of the breakfast table, Harry was making tea for his former Defense Against the Dark Arts professor, one of his father's best friends, one of his godfather's best friends, the only one who remained.

Remus, Harry thought idly, didn't look so odd in Muggle clothing. The pressed brown slacks were old, but clean, as was the white shirt and sport jacket tossed over his shoulders. Remus wore them comfortably, and occupied himself with the morning's newspaper, his lips moving as he read. He looked more like a librarian skiving off work instead of a powerful wizard and werewolf, a member of a covert, underground group battling the Dark Lord. Then again, Harry thought ruefully, Sirius had looked like an absolute fiend, as far as comparison to stereotyped imagery of heroes went.

It was unhealthy, and probably misguided, but Harry thought that if anywhere there remained any of Sirius to be had--it'd be Remus. They'd spent seven years together, after all, shared a room and probably all of their secrets.

All but one, Harry couldn't help but remember, and it'd ruined them.

"Here you go. It's Darjeeling," Harry said shakily.

Professor Lupin eyed him for a moment as he took the teacup gratefully, but didn't say a word as Harry breathed very slowly, biting back some wayward urge to scream and demand an answer that nobody would give him. Harry had never given much credit to the angry teenagers on TV shouting about how nobody understood how they felt, but the world was shifting, and Harry was starting to feel a deep sense of kinship with them, a kind of horrible empathy.

Remus finally looked away, a smirk quirking the corner of his mouth, and Harry hated him for that. Wondered how Remus smiled despite the situation, wondered if he'd cared at all when Sirius had died. He'd been logical, detached, forever calm in the face of all that had happened at the Ministry of Magic--and hadn't held Harry back from the veil when maybe it hadn't been too late? What if, Harry couldn't help but think, he'd just reached in, a little past the cloth.

And then he chastised himself, because Sirius would have done the same if Harry ever voiced those thoughts. He could nearly hear Sirius' voice, rough and warm all at once, saying, "Harry, Remus was the best of us, smartest."

"You don't seem too busy," Remus said gently. He wasn't looking at Harry.

Harry blinked. "No. I finished all of my summer homework a few weeks ago."

There hadn't been anything else in the house to do, and with the Dursley's tiptoeing around him, he'd had the peace he'd needed to throw himself into Transfiguration reading and Charms work, the four-foot essay that Snape had assigned on a whim the last day of classes.

Remus raised one eyebrow and sipped his tea. He said, "Hm. Excellent, then I expect you'd have plenty of time to pen a letter."

Harry flushed. "Sorry," he murmured.

"It's all right." Remus set down the teacup and folded his hands in his lap, looking supremely balanced. "Your safety is important to us, Harry," he continued. "We--" Remus reconsidered, for a moment uncertain, an expression Harry saw so rarely on the werewolf's face "--I would appreciate it if you remembered that."

Shame crawled up along his spine, circling and circling. Harry fancied that he sometimes forgot what if felt like to be at fault for something; the entire world reminded him every day that the death of his parents wasn't his fault, that what had happened to Ginny hadn't been due to him, that Cedric's death and Voldemort's rebirth hadn't anything to do with him. And most of all, Harry had been reassured over and again that Sirius' death wasn't his fault, that it couldn't have been. "An unfortunate series of events," someone had murmured, "that had come to an unfortunate conclusion."

It had not been Remus that said it.

All of a sudden, it was important to know Remus. He was all that was left, Harry thought, but he'd be the only one there in the future, too.

"Would you really?" Harry asked, breathless.

At Remus' confused expression, Harry said, "Do you--would you really care?"

Everyone had a purpose for him. Everything that dragged him off in divergent directions had a reason: prophecy or popularity of the reputation, the scar on his head or his mother's green eyes. Harry had known it--somewhere in his head--that when Sirius saw him Sirius saw James first, and then had to blink, readjust, before he saw Harry there, young and different. And that had hurt, burned, but it was all right. Sirius was Sirius, a bit odd and rough everywhere but the edges--which were razor sharp and quick enough to cut--and Harry loved him for it. Dumbledore had said he loved Harry too much to give him the truth, but Harry didn't see how it was possible; for Dumbledore's preternatural ability to know and see all, he didn't know Harry. Nobody did, and everybody loved him, needed him desperately, wanted him to feel wanted and loved, as if his whole life had been bereft and they were frantically trying to make up for lost sunlight, or some other essential agent like oxygen.

Professor Lupin had never been close enough to do any of those things. Harry remembered Professor Lupin in flashes of Defense Against the Dark Arts classes, with late afternoon sunshine streaming in through large windows. He remembered Kappa and Grindylowe, butterbeer and tea in chipped china. Harry remembered chocolate and Dementors on the Hogwarts Express and how Remus, despite what Ron said, was the only one who hadn't--

Remus cocked on eyebrow at Harry and leaned back in his chair.

"What brought this on?" Remus asked, almost amused-sounding.

It made Harry wanted to break something. "Nevermind. Forget I asked," he muttered.

And for one split second of silence Harry felt the air in the room snap, crack with cold and when Harry looked up again, the pleasant blandness in Professor's Lupin's face was gone.

"Sulking doesn't become you," Remus said precisely.

It made Harry feel just as young as he really was when Remus said that. It made Harry remember all of a sudden that despite the prophesy and knowing more magic than the other students in his year and being an unofficial member of the Order of the Phoenix, he was a silly little child. The knowledge burned in his head.

Remus sighed, and ran his hands over his face. His shoulders slumped and when he looked up at Harry again, he looked -- not older, but less composed, almost younger in his anger. Harry watched Remus for half a beat before the tension started to melt out of the werewolf's shoulders, not so much into the ether, but changing into something else altogether.

Harry whispered, "Sorry."

Remus shook his head, looking away. "Sit down, Harry," he said.

Harry did.

The chairs in the room were warm with afternoon sunshine and Harry ran his fingers along the edge of the table, dipping them into the white light because he'd been feeling icy for so long he nearly forgot what warm was, really. Warm, he remembered vaguely, was being in the kitchen at Grimmauld Place with Sirius' laughter echoing in the background and the door to the house blowing open.

"Of course," Remus started, and then stopped. He looked as if he was having trouble saying whatever it was he was trying to say. And Harry remembered that, too, Sirius' growly-warm whisper in his ear after Christmas dinner saying, "Don't worry, mate. That's just Moony being a paragon of British restraint." There was a long pause and then Remus started again, hands once again in his lap, but clasped together, as if he was concentrating with every fiber of his body. "Harry, do you know who changed your first diaper?"

Harry blinked. He said, "Er." Failing to garner a reaction, he added, "No?"

Remus smiled, less tense now. "I did," he said easily. And at Harry's surprise, he added, "After your mother got home from the hospital she conked out for almost a whole day. Your dad was an utter fruitcake and kept buzzing around her even though she wasn't even awake. Peter was terrified that he'd break you." Harry winced at the mention of Wormtail, but Remus just looked far away for just a moment before he snorted, "And Sirius didn't see why we couldn't get a house elf to do it. Naturally -- " Remus actually laughed " -- he totally forgot that not every household had house elves."

Harry boggled for a moment at the thought of four grown men standing around without a clue how to do something fourteen year old girls who wanted pocket money could do.

"Are you serious?" Harry asked.

"We were utterly baffled," Remus admitted. "And Lily had the funny disposable diapers with the sticky tabs." He looked thoughtful. "I think that Sirius destroyed three diapers and taped one to himself before I finally managed to get one onto you."

Harry laughed, and the sound surprised himself. "Cleverest boys in your year," he said.

Remus grinned lazily. "We never claimed that."

"Everyone seems to think so," Harry shot back, still grinning broadly. "Everyone says."

Remus cocked one brown eyebrow and said quietly, "What everyone says isn't necessarily what's true." There was a pause. "And just because no one says it doesn't mean that it isn't true either, Harry."

Harry felt Remus' gaze hard on his face and looked away. "Oh," he managed.

"We do, Harry," Remus said gently. "Even if we don't say it."

It took Harry half a beat to realize what question Remus was answering. We do, Remus had said, and his eyes were intent. We do, I do, I am.

And another memory stroked over his memory then, just a fragment of no particular night or morning, with graying light scattering across the floor of Grimmauld Place and Remus at the kitchen table. Sirius leaning over Remus, eyes on the Daily Prophet while he filled Remus' mug with steaming tea.

Remus had said, "What is this?"

Sirius had said, "Not poisoned. Drink it, you berk." So Remus had shrugged, and did.

And then they'd both looked up at the doorway where Harry had been standing, rubbing at his eyes and yawning. They'd smiled and said, "Good morning, Harry."

So then it'd all dissolved, like webbing into the Ministry and the gray veil over whatever lay on the other end, through a filter and into a word much changed, off-center, rearranged like a portrait in pieces and glued back again. Harry felt like an archeologist, sifting through pieces of masterpieces and gathering plaster, making the best guess and hoping whatever he chose wasn't too permanent, that there was space for change. Something very tangible suddenly in fragments on the floor.

It had existed once though, Harry thought strangely, and that meant something, meant quite a lot, actually.

And Remus was there, at his kitchen table sipping tea and looking at him intently and admitting that he'd had no idea what he was doing and that Harry's first diaper was a thing of chance and accident and defaulted responsibility.

It had been, Harry decided with a sudden flash of shame, a stupid question.

Harry said, "Did Sirius like Darjeeling?"

Remus blinked and glanced into his teacup, as if searching for an answer in the amber liquid. When he looked back up at Harry, he said, "Yes, Harry. Though not as much as other things."

He was through with stupid questions, Harry decided.

So he grinned and asked, "Like what?"


End file.
